


Maglor's Silmarillion

by SerpentsKiss



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: #wtf, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1581668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentsKiss/pseuds/SerpentsKiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Maglor acts upon an obsession and Daeron and Tolkien put up with a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maglor's Silmarillion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladygabe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygabe/gifts).



In retrospect, Makalaure thought that he was quite lucky to have someone like Daeron. His lover – and forgive him for thinking it – understood crazy. He understood a desperate, painful drive to do something no matter the cost, no matter the effort, no matter the time. He knew the sobbing, desolate moments when one was sure one would fail, the insane elation of somehow taking a step forward. Daeron knew them, and he experienced them all patiently again through Makalaure's insane quest.

It really was crazy. He couldn't help it, though, the needing desperately to know. The tales his parents told him, the recollections of his own memory, the gaps in the tales and lore and history of his people. He wasn't sure what drove him to fill in those holes, but he had to, or risk losing himself. So he went, and Daeron with him, to find the kernels of their beginnings, the seeds of things that were. So they went, and so they found them, through years of pain and hardship and wild, unpredictable emotions.

If anything, Makalaure was more lost when he came to the completion of what he could learn. He had a wealth of painful knowledge, gleaned at great cost, and he had no way to express it. He began hunting again. Not for stories, this time, but for a storyteller. He told them, oh yes, but through song, through oral traditions. Daeron wrote, but this burden was not his to bear. Makalaure needed a human, and so he found one. He dropped clues, left lures, teasing hints and torments and the tiniest seeds of something more. Some bit. More passed by. None were right, until the man came.

This man was right. He had a hunger, a fascination that almost rivaled Makalaure's obsession. Makalaure adored him, in his own way, and fed to him every scrap of information he could, from the most beautiful to the most painful. Every secret he harbored about his origins and his family he stripped ruthlessly bare for the sake of the story. His heart almost broke when it was over and the man looked at him and said that no human adult would read this. The work, the beautiful, complete work, could never see a printing press in this world of pragmatism, this lack of foolishness.

Fine, Makalaure had snarled at him over the shards of the glass he had smashed on the floor. Fine, if he wanted a tale to thrill children, he would have one. And so he told more, in a bitter fury, insisting that it all be written now, if that was how it was to be. No, there would be no relaxation, no chatter, no sleep – that had all been spent on Makalaure's beloved project, the wasted book. There would be none of that, now. If he was not rewarded for his trials, then he would share some of those trials with the man.

The man listened. Without a chirp of protest, he wrote Makalaure's story, the tiny thing that Makalaure had considered trivial. He wrote it, and bid the elf goodbye, and published the work. A child's book, perhaps, but it caught the attention of adults. The rich history that was only hinted at in the tale of hero and dragon became a topic over dinner tables. The man begin to have hope that he could complete the quest that he had joined, could satisfy Makalaure's need and calm his anger. Boldly, he returned to the elf, offered to publish only part of his history, the part that followed the death of the dragon. Boldly still he had suffered Makalaure's snarling and growling and the breaking of more things, waited and cajoled until Makalaure had agreed to his whim.

It wasn't until the death of the man that Makalaure had what he desired. They had reconciled by then, had reached an understanding and a mutual respect. Still a hole burned in him, and it was finally satisfied at the discovery of the man's writings. They were published, and Makalaure finally had what he wanted – his history, laid open to the humans. Certainly, they thought it a story, but there were some that would know better. This way, perhaps, those few would have a chance to stop wandering alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know.


End file.
